The things we do for love

“So, if I hear one more time that you have comments on Alexia's piano playing, I will be on your doorstep again. Do you understand? But then it will not be such a friendly chit-chat!”

The father stands up. He motions for his daughter to follow him. The music teacher is still in her chair. Confused, dazed, stupefied. The father indicates that he can walk himself out. When Charlotte hears the front door lock, she clenches her fists. And hits the armrests of the armchair with them violently. “What a gigantic mo-mo-motherfucker Alexia's father is,” she stutters furiously.

She closes her blue-gray, round eyes. Slowly and attentively she breaths in and out. “Stay calm, Charlotte, remain relaxed,” she tells herself. This she knows for sure. It is crucial not to let this incident throw her off balance. She has to pull herself together.

When she opens her eyes, she looks around the room. Her space. The holy of holies. Here is the Bechstein piano. The Eminent organ. The bust of Bach. The collection of music books. The display cabinet with prizes. The wall full of diplomas, certificates,

She has had this dream since she was a child. To be a music teacher. To have her own practice with students. She has fought for it since she was eight years old. She has practiced for hours every day. First on the organ. Later also the piano. Step by step she has mastered the profession. The art of making music. Little by little she acquired the skill it. The art of giving music. To children, to adults, to amateurs, to professionals. She put everything aside for it. Free time, holidays, relationships, hobbies, money, sleep, her health.

And she has never doubted whether she was on the right path. She has had questions from parents, friends, colleagues. Isn't she exaggerating? Doesn't the music asks too much of her? Can't she approach it a little less seriously? A little looser, a little more playful, a little less rigid? Like art is not a spark of the gods.

A little hidden between the light brown stained wall unit and the pine bookcase is a modest table. She walks towards it. It has now become routine. When life is difficult for her, she finds peace and tranquility in this place. This private, devoted spot.

There is a photo of Jeremiah on the table. It has now been one year, three months, two weeks, five days, and twenty-three hours since he passed away. There are a few personal things about him surrounding the photo. A razor, his cell phone, a book with crossword puzzles, tickets from the Vermeer exhibition. Her eyes become moist. She caresses the silver frame of the photo frame with her thin, nimble fingers. As if she is looking for contact.

Jeremiah would have known what to do with the troubled parent. She hears his voice echoing in her head. And even more than the breathing exercises, this gives her silence, balance. Her husband knew her fears and insecurities better than anyone else. He could stand next to her, look her in the eye and say in an incantatory way: always believe in yourself! You have the talent, you have the perseverance, you are the artist, you have the spark of the gods.

She realizes how intimidated she is by Alexia's father. She has allowed herself to be treated like a pathetic old woman. Did Jeremiah want this? Had he allowed this? She feels her anger subsiding. She walks to the kitchen to make coffee. She concludes that such an embarrassing experience with a student's parent will not happen again. She will keep her back straight from now on.

When she sits in the front room – cup of steaming coffee, shortbread biscuits – she remembers the countless conversations with her colleagues about today's youth. How easily children get hurt these days. How without any difficulties they got offended. How they are treated like princes and princesses. How difficult it is for them to deal with pressure, expectations, and ambition. Which makes those youngsters fragile, vulnerable. The result is that parents in particular feel called to protect their offspring. Like their brood were plants in a greenhouse.

Charlotte looks at the Frisian Dutch Tail Clock. She panics. The next student will be at the door shortly. She takes the empty cup to the kitchen and walks to the organ where the appointment note is located. In a couple of minutes Boaz will ring the doorbell. A ten-year-old boy whose mother is a well-known and famous pianist.

Ten minutes later than the agreed time, the doorbell sounds. The student stands on her wiped clean doorstep. Restrained, timid. He is still wearing his football clothes. His knees are black with mud and grass, his hair is wild and sticky, his head red and sweaty.

“Sorry, sorry, miss. I had completely lost track of time. We were playing football on the field behind the old Library,” says Boaz in a soft voice. He makes a movement as if he wants to walk into the clean hall of Charlotte in his dirty football boots.

“Ho, ho, what are we doing! Please take off your dirty shoes first!” the teacher grumbles. She immediately feels the frustration rising again. While the kid takes off the wet shoes (the doormat is now littered with clumps of grass and mud clods), the older woman waits impatiently at the door that leads to the living room.

“Did you bring your music books?” she asks as they walk towards the Bernstein piano. The child hits his forehead, turns around, runs back to the front door in his wet socks. He unzips the gym bag, digs through the trousers, socks, underpants, T-shirts, and sandals, and pulls out the crumpled bundles of music sheets.

“I knew I had that with me,” he says triumphantly as he takes a seat next to the teacher on an elongated stool. Charlotte turns the pages until she finds the piece Boaz should have practiced for the day. ‘Ode to Joy.’ The entire page is covered with remarks, notes.

Boaz stares at his fingers. His nails are blacker than the black keys. Then he looks sideways at the teacher. She pretends not to notice anything and gestures for him to go finally start playing.

“I haven't had much practice,” the student admits. “I spent quite a bit of time watching football on TV. Do you like that? European football Championship? What is your favorite country?”

Whether it's his chatter, the confrontation with Alexia's father, Jeremiah’s sudden death, the time of year, she feels a surge of fury inside her. Before she has the chance to censure and admonish herself, she jumps up from the piano stool, knocks the music book off the raised edge, and waves with her arms in the air.

“Now I am fed up with you, Boaz! Now I am sick and tired of you! You just come at my place when it suits you. You do not even bother to change your clothes. And practicing? What is that? It is quite an achievement that you remember what a piano looks like!”

The young student observes at her with big, scared eyes. Like he witnesses a friendly lap dog turning into a rabid wolf.

“That's why I am telling you now: buzz off! Beat it! Out of my eyes!” She points to the door. She trembles, she foams at her mouth. The amazed child hesitates. Does his music teacher really mean this? Does he really have to leave? Without being taught?

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She sits back in her armchair. She is panting like she has run a half marathon. But instead of feeling relieved - she has finally taken action - she feels guilty and burdened. Did she do the right thing? Hasn't she been too blunt, too strict? Too embittered?

Then the doorbell sounds. Charlotte looks up in surprise. She does not expect any student currently. When she opens the door, Boaz is standing on the sidewalk. Wet socks, messy hair, black knees.

Without saying a word, he firmly pushes her aside and strides towards the Bechtstein piano. When she follows him, he turns and mumbles regretfully, “You're right. I am a wimp because I do not exercise that often. But I want to learn the piece of piano music!”

He starts to cry. He is climbing on the stool again. “Hardly anyone knows,” he sobs, “but mom is ill, very seriously ill.” The boy moves his lips, but he cannot utter a sound. He shakes his head helplessly, with his sticky fingers he pulls hears from his greasy skull, small tears fall on the salmon-colored deep pile carpet.

“I promised Dad, to play her favorite song at the funeral.”